John McKinley Pride Jr. Poetry & Art

A spoken word poem “I Look Back Not Wanting” Is it a crime to cheat death? To defy a way out of life’s end To see the cloak of death creeping Sweeping over my body in darkness Only to watch it gracefully hover over my head Grazing the end of my nose Pulling my lashes to open my eyes And seeing the darkness no more I look back not wanting But wondering why it did not Choose me this time Why for a moment I felt peace And fear all at the same time Why my lips felt cold but kissed death good bye I look back not needing I look back not wishing I look back not wanting I look back wondering why Why It did not choose me this time By John McKinley Pride Jr 2/21/11

"Trying to Find Reason" Some times I see this strong man in front of me and some times I see the weak that can spout out from me knowing there is not such a thing as the fountain of youth my legs tremble like numb limbs to be cut off from disease. The cramping of my fingers, the forgetfulness of those things that are so dear to me and yet no matter what I do I steel just fade. I hear them say “you are vanishing, just let go” but I try to push on for what I think is the reason for been here. They whisper to me “the reason? What reason do you think you have here?” In a calm thought I say back to them “you know, my reason, my reason for been here” “Reason?” they say to me “what reason do you think you have, what part of reason do you not understand” I say back to them my reason that is the part I understand, the parts that make me, me and the reason that separates you from me’ The parts that complete me and every thing that I am from the tears and the touch of a wife to the stro

"Autumn Past" Shadows of an autumn past, the greenery is gone but my heart stays still. The blue heavens stay in my mind as thoughts walk next to me left to right. I find these words that seem so difficult to say, but yet love just walks away, not needing a challenge just a simple life with out the conflicts of others to make it so difficult to live an everyday life. Scared to find out that there is moor people against you then what you thought, but it’s the worst when you find that one of those people is you. But you won’t be stopped until there is another autumn approaching. By John McKinley Pride Jr. 3/8/’02

Flash forward and come back to your self The time with in the numbers in your hands To choose and pluck destinations unknown Love has grown and love has been lost Between the hands of certainty Death fallows behind step for step through the doors of secrecy Time stands motionless Time fly’s by Time is yours beyond all time Doorways open and close Close and then open Victorian dreams at there end To see the overly morel world that has long past Truly this is were it all begins Begins this story Begins this wonder Begins the clocks of time So the pendulum swings more then once And the bells are ringing loud in your ears Which door will be your last and where do you start over from here? Between love you must stay Between death you must run Between time you must push on Between these worlds you do not know Between worlds you must go Between worlds you must stay Become times clay it molds you in its own way Choose you must; you will find that time was all yours to hold, spin and mol

Time stands still Time fly’s by Time is yours beyond all time Doorways open and close Close and then open Death fallows behind step for step Victorian dreams at there end To see the overly morel world that has long past Truly this is were it all begins Begins this story Begins this wonder Begins the clocks of time And the pendulum swings With the bell ringing All for you By John McKinley Pride Jr

Well first off I would like to say thank you to who ever reads my blog or even shows any interest in it. It is truly humbling and an honor to have any one looking at my work or even my blog; Thank you so much. Were does it begin? Through ones pin or maybe the veins of some one who really loves the art of poetry or song righting. Maybe it all starts at the bed side of a child that has parents that sing them to sleep or read them a wonderful book. How ever it starts it can become like a fire in ones heart or a storm in ones brain; in my case it all started by a fifth grade teacher that put a belief in me that I never felt before. Now days we are loosing the touch of what made righter’s so great and artists so unique. The arts have become too easy to manipulate and have been perverted by others and the media that are just looking to become popular in there fifteen minutes of fame. I am not saying that making a living off what you are good at is a bad thing. What I am saying; is that now i